


All Journey is Return

by Anemoi, saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe it’s a little stupid and a little clichéd but Fernando can’t help but be reminded of his younger self whenever he’s with Antoine, so he finds reasons to spend time with him. And it’s not as if the only thing Antoine can offer is this strange little stab of narcissistic nostalgia. Fernando does genuinely like him. He likes Antoine Griezmann. And Antoine likes him. It works. It’s nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Journey is Return

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in varying stages of sleep-deprivation, distraction while on vacations (Maine and Disney World. Guess whose family loves them more), and small flurries of emotional shouting via skype. but please enjoy our first collab fic.
> 
> -S&X
> 
> disclaimer: neither of us know anything about Atlético whoops

 

The first time Fernando offers to show Antoine around Madrid is because he overhears Antoine complaining that he needs to find a decent cafe with prices that won’t send him to the poorhouse (“You’re a professional footballer, I think you can afford to pay a bit extra for a fancy cup of coffee,” Saúl says, rolling his eyes) and since Fernando knows the city well he thinks it might be a way to start getting to know his new team mates.

 

The second time is because walking around pointing out all his favourite restaurants and parks and which shops always give out free samples feels a lot like showing Madrid to himself, getting reacquainted with all the little intricacies of his home city that he’d forgotten in the long interim since he’d lived there last. Antoine is excitable and chatty and nice, and Fernando likes taking these small tours of the city and seeing what has changed and what hasn’t. So maybe it’s a little stupid and a little clichéd but Fernando can’t help but be reminded of his younger self whenever he’s with Antoine, so he finds reasons to spend time with him. And it’s not as if the only thing Antoine can offer is this strange little stab of narcissistic nostalgia. Fernando does genuinely like him. He likes Antoine Griezmann. And Antoine likes him. It works. It’s nice.

 

-

Fernando likes to think that he's very observant. A good skill to have, for a striker. Right now he's looking at Antoine, who's not looking at him but holding an ice cream cone, giving it a casual lick every now and then, staring down the quiet Madrid street. He's wearing a baseball hat and an angry floral shirt, tie dyed to distressing colors. Fernando shakes his head to himself, amused against his will by Antoine, his absolute lack of a fashion sense and his inability to _not_ stand out. Again it reminds Fernando of himself, from long ago.

Antoine looks back at him, a flash of a grin lighting up his face. His eyes flit by Fernando's, meeting his gaze for a second before glancing away. Fernando blinks. Was that a blush spreading across his cheeks? It must be. He wonders why.

“So, where to next?” Antoine asks, ducking his head.

Fernando likes to think he's an observant person. But truth be told-

-

 

They have yet to find a coffee shop that perfectly suited their combined needs. Most of Fernando’s favourite places are a bit on the higher end of the price spectrum and Antoine likes to order the kind of disgustingly sugary lattes that Fernando had abandoned sometime around 2012, which are mostly served in the type of shops that produce crowds of teens looking for autographs within three minutes of two professional footballers crossing the threshold. So each of their excursions had so far featured different places.

 

 On this day they end up at a café that Fernando is familiar with, but hasn’t been back to since years ago. When he'd been able to return to Madrid to visit family and friends it had always been a rush to the most popular places, the upscale restaurants he'd made a list of on his phone while waiting for the plane.

This place had skipped his mind for whatever reason. The first time he'd been he hadn't really liked the food nor really the coffee, but it did have that certain advantage of being mostly deserted and therefore private, and is certainly not what could be called expensive. Fernando had mostly frequented here when he had been starting out his career and was still working his way up the pay grade.

They go back to Fernando’s house after a not-disagreeable lunch, because he knows from experience that Antoine will thrash him at FIFA for twenty minutes and then he’ll be able to beg off and stretch out on the couch to doze while Antoine amuses himself with single-player.

This particular afternoon proves true to form, and after a few rounds of France versus Spain Fernando flings his controller aside with an exaggerated sigh of despair. “How are you so good at this,” he complains. “It’s not fair.”

Antoine laughs and shoves at his shoulder. “Maybe you’re just _bad_ , ever think of that?”

“I am not,” Fernando protests. “I usually win when I play during call-ups.”

“Maybe the whole Spanish team is bad!”

“Hey,” Fernando says, mock-warningly, “when you win the World Cup then you can come back and talk to me.”

Antoine looks meaningfully at the television screen, where the video game French team is still celebrating after beating Fernando’s Spanish players. For the fourth time.

“When you win the World Cup _in real life._ ”

Antoine switches to single-player. Fernando sinks back into the soft, squishy cushions of his sofa and idly watches the screen. He feels his eyes slowly drifting closed.

The window behind him is open, letting in a warm breeze and the familiar sounds of Madrid going about its day. Beside him Antoine makes a tiny noise of annoyance, followed by something in irritated French under his breath. Fernando doesn’t open his eyes but he grins, amused, already half-asleep.

He wakes up what can’t be more than half an hour later to find that he’s slipped sideways while he dozed, head resting on Antoine’s shoulder. Antoine is still playing his game, but is making an effort not to flail his arms about as much as he usually does so as not to dislodge Fernando.

“Oh, sorry,” Fernando says, yawning and sitting up to release Antoine. “You could have just shoved me off.”

Antoine pauses the game to turn and face Fernando. “No problem,” he says, shrugging amicably. “I didn’t mind you there.” He blushes slightly. “I mean. It’s fine.”

Fernando unfolds himself from the sofa, standing up and stretching his arms above his head, his fingertips nearly brushing the ceiling. “Ah, shit. That’s good.” He sighs contentedly, spine curving. “Hey, I’m gonna grab a glass of water.” He turns back to Antoine, who’s watching him with an oddly wide-eyed gaze. “Want something?”

Antoine snaps his eyes away quickly and goes back to the television, unpausing his game and continuing to play. “No thanks. Wait, actually, water. Um. Water would be great.”

Fernando nods and heads towards the kitchen, mind still shaking itself out the lazy stupor of his nap. It’s not until he’s pouring the second glass of water that he thinks about the expression on Antoine’s face when he had looked at Fernando and realises what it had meant.

Oh.

_Oh._

The glass overfills and he swears, setting the jug aside and distractedly mopping up the spilled water. All the little things from before coalesced in to a concrete _something_ in his mind, something that was evident in Antoine’s wide eyes and his downturned gaze and the blush that always spread across his cheeks when Fernando put a companionable arm around his shoulders.

_Oh._

-

And of course, once Fernando notices it becomes almost embarrassingly apparent. He’s surprised he hadn’t picked up on it before, because even though Antoine seems to be content with half-way-there flirting and just being close without making anything of it, he’s definitely...well. He’s definitely doing _something_.

Fernando’s flattered. Really, he is. It’s cute in a way, the way he might feel if a friend’s younger sibling had a crush on him, which isn’t a comparison that Antoine comes off particularly well in but is accurate nonetheless. He also can’t help but be hyperaware of everything that Antoine does now. He finds himself looking for Antoine, surreptitiously keeping an eye on him as they pass the ball around in training.

He doesn’t feel awkward with his new knowledge, even as it changes how he observes Antoine’s actions in regards to himself. For a day or two he even considers what might happen if he played back into the flirting, because Fernando knows that he could have something here if he wanted. It would be as easy as meeting Antoine’s eyes head on and, when he dropped his gaze to quickly avert the now-transparent stare he seemed to direct at Fernando every other minute, reaching out to gently tip Antoine’s face back up. To lean in and take what he wanted. Whatever he wanted.

He could have something but there’s a difference that the years make, in his knees and in his head, and Fernando isn’t the sparkling young talent with the world on a string that he once was. Maybe years ago he would have been enticed enough to take what Antoine was offering. Fernando thinks about it idly as he kicks a ball back and forth. Maybe back at Liverpool he would have-

Something trips a wire in his head and a few scattered pieces fall into place. Liverpool. Liverpool meant Stevie, and when Fernando thinks of Stevie he suddenly recalls the person that he had been at Liverpool and the person that Stevie had been. And the person that he, Fernando, is now at Atlético: maybe not the captain and maybe only on loan but undeniably some sort of prodigal son returned at last from across the sea. Well, the English Channel. The point remains. History repeats itself, everyone knows that. But history it would seem also likes to switch roles on you unexpectedly, so that one day you’re star struck with the man on the pedestal and the next you’re the one teetering precariously on the marble while begging off the shining eyes of someone looking up at you, trying to explain that it’s not you who’s glowing, it’s just the colors you’re wearing. The badge on your chest, dictating the rhythm of your heart.

From a little ways away Antoine catches his eye and grins at him. Fernando smiles back on reflex. Antoine flicks the ball up into the air and balances it on his shoulder before dropping it back on his instep. Saúl applauds (with minimal sarcasm) and reaches out for a high five. Fernando just ducks his head, forcing himself to look away. 

Something else comes to him in a brittle flash of clarity. So had that been it? Had he loved Steven because of _Steven_ , or because of how Steven had made him feel? It was hard to tell, when every time he closes his eyes he can hear the roar of the crowd, _Torres, Torres, Torres,_ a sea of red and Steven's wide, wide smile. So he had loved Steven Gerrard because of those perfect passes that had landed by his feet, the way the sight of the number 8 between those shoulder blades had made him feel _invincible,_ as though every time he stepped into the pitch at Anfield he was going to score. He had only been twenty-three. Steven hadn't been much older but he’d been the _captain_ , the captain of Istanbul glory. And when he’d said, _Nando, I know you can do it,_ Fernando would have driven himself into the ground to prove him right. For Liverpool but also for Stevie.

Had he loved Steven Gerrard? Or just himself, in a bizarre vainglorious twist like falling in love with a mirror, reflecting the projected glory of his own potential until he was mesmerized by it. _No,_ Fernando thinks, _I loved him. I did._ But it’s a hopeless sort of realization that creeps up on him. Steven had believed in him, and Fernando had loved the confidence that he’d found in himself because of it.

“Fernando?” Antoine says, wandering over to him. “Something up?”

“No, nothing. Sorry.” Fernando smiles, distracted, and turns away pointedly, his ears warm with shame and empathy at the way Antoine’s face falls, but knowing it was for the best. Whatever it is that Antoine is looking for, he’s not going to find it here. Not with Fernando.

-

But despite everything, despite knowing that Fernando isn’t whoever Antoine might think he is, Fernando finds it hard to say no when Antoine calls him up for their weekly wander in search of good coffee. This time when Fernando catches Antoine looking at him from the corner of his eye he recognises the expression there. Antoine once again reminds him of his younger self, and walking Antoine through Madrid once again becomes Fernando getting reacquainted with something he once knew. Except this time it sinks his heart instead of buoying it. It may have been a long time since he last wore Liverpool red but some things you could never forget.

He wants to grab at Antoine’s shoulders and tell him to stop. Tell him that Fernando isn’t someone with all the answers, or any answers at all. Fernando barely knows what _he_ wants, how could he give Antoine anything?

He’s learned by now that falling in love with the thought of someone is so very different than falling in love with the actual person. Fernando knows it’s quite simple. Antoine looks at him and he doesn’t see Fernando but rather _Fernando Torres_ , the Atlético legend, world champion and boy on fire. But Fernando isn’t burning anymore. He’s almost burned out. Fernando hasn’t come back to Atlético in a whirlwind of flame; he’ll be the first to admit that he’s come limping home looking for even just a spark of something indefinable that he’d lost somewhere under the oppressive grey clouds of London.

Everything racing through his head makes it hard to smile back sincerely when Antoine looks at him. Antoine notices, and gives him little concerned glances in the gaps of their stuttering conversation.  

“Are we going back to yours?” Antoine asks, finally, his voice carefully pitched to nonchalance, but the underlying nervousness easy to discern when Fernando pays attention.

Fernando clears his throat and pushes his empty cup away. “Sorry, I. I have a headache. Next time?”

Antoine nods, hiding his disappointment poorly. “Okay.”

Fernando stands up and offers a hand to Antoine, then tugs him in gently and bumps their shoulders together. “Next week,” he promises, and pretends that he doesn’t feel a warmth spreading in his chest when Antoine’s face lights up.

-

Fernando goes home and lasts half an hour before dialling the number. It’s been on his mind too much, every interaction with Antoine worsening the situation. He needs- he needs something. Reaffirmation. Clarity. Closure.

The line is picked up after two rings. It must be early morning in Los Angeles.

“Hello?”

How many years has it been and yet he's still weak to that voice? Fernando's heart is like scattered billiard balls on a pool table. His own voice wavers when he tries to reply.

“Hello. Stevie.”

“Nando? Wasn’t expecting you t’ call- how are you?” Steven says, voice fuzzy with sleep but still sounding pleased. Fernando struggles to come up with something, anything, and manages to stutter out a question about Los Angeles and Steven’s family. They play catch up for a while until they reach the end of the small talk and there’s an expectant silence on the other end, like Steven’s woken up fully over the course of their polite exchange and is now waiting for Fernando to come to the point of the call.

“Did you ever-“ Fernando starts, and then halts, not knowing how to continue. There’s really no way to ask without just coming out with it. He swallows. “Stevie, when we were at Liverpool, did you ever love me?”

Steven is silent for a long time. “Nando…” He says at last, quietly, and Fernando feels the final piece of the confusion slot in to place.

“I’m sorry.” He says, apropos of nothing. He’s not sure how else to communicate to Steven everything that he needs to say. He’s not sure if he needs to prove something to Steven or to himself, but it feels important nonetheless.

“Nando. It wasn’t- that, you know? I did love you, of course I did- you’re a great person, a great player, and you made Liverpool great, too.” He pauses. “But what you’re asking…”

It sure felt like love, Fernando wants to say, wants to protest. It sure felt like love when I couldn’t breathe whenever I thought of you, when every time I closed my eyes I could see you smiling at me. It sure felt like love.

“I think there was a bit of hero worship going on, Nando.” Steven continues gently, terribly understanding.

Fernando clears his throat and goes for light-hearted, although he thinks he probably sounds awful despite his best efforts. “Was I very obvious?”

Steven chuckles. “As anything.”

There’s a lull between them as Fernando sits, quiet. On the other end of the line Steven coughs quietly. “Nando- I don’t think that’s what you meant to ask. You know I always- you know.”

Fernando says, “Yes.” He thinks he does. What he doesn’t know is if it makes it any better.

“Alright.” Steven says, a little bit awkwardly. “Look, I’ve got to go get moving, but- we’ll talk later, yeah?”

“Yes,” Fernando says again, although he knows that they wouldn’t, knows that this was probably the last time he’d dial this number. After all, they were almost strangers to each other. It had been a long time. Sometimes he didn’t realise just how long.

“Take care of yourself, Nando.” Steven says, and the line clicks.

-

 He has one of Steven’s jerseys in his collection. He had gotten it before he left for Chelsea, something like a last favour. He goes and looks for it amongst all the other ones he’s accumulated through the years, finds both it and his own old Liverpool jersey -how was it still there? He thought he’d given them all away, to everyone who’d ever asked- neatly folded up beside each other. The colours don’t burn him when he picks it up. He’s almost surprised.

Still. He runs a finger across the name on the back of the shirt, _Gerrard,_ and can almost see Steven’s pass and hear the crowd’s roar. He can see himself, lanky limbs and messy hair, waiting on the volley, grinning so hard it hurt his face.  

He can still feel it, so much burning red. He wonders if it’s the same- that every time Antoine looks around for him he still sees _Torres,_ the boy who didn’t even need to look as he kicked the ball because it always wound up in the back of the net. That boy is long gone. What use is letting Antoine in? In the end he’ll just be disappointed and Fernando will have to deal with that too, Antoine’s inevitable cold politeness, his ardour turned to ashes in front of the man who would never – _could_ never- live up to the idol in his dreams.

What was the use of it at all?

Except. Except if he believed in himself the way that Fernando had believed in himself -with just a word, a glance, a touch- if he believed in himself and in Atlético, the red and white, the crowds in the Calderón, Madrid in the fall. _If he believed in himself_ , then what would be the harm in believing in Fernando as well? One false thing among many truths. He wonders if Steven ever felt the same way. Had ever felt this same conflict, this same choice. To play on emotions and expectations and hope to get something more out of them than just disappointment and disillusionment. Liverpool, Anfield, Steven Gerrard.

Fernando Torres, _el Niño,_ maybe it was time to grow up.

People were always fallible, always flawed. But maybe sometimes, it was necessary to believe in someone who _wasn’t,_ to believe that a person could be just as true and unbroken as a badge stitched lovingly into a shirt, as the perfectly mown grass on the pitch, as the harmony of a hundred thousand voices all singing together. To believe in someone, and to let them believe in you.

Fernando puts the jerseys away, back into their boxes. He clicks off the lights and leans against the closed door.

 _You know I always- you know._ How many years and he still agreed: he knew. Who could doubt that it was love, after all, even if not the sort that he had imagined at first.

-

He grabs Antoine as his partner during a drill in training and lets himself be pleased with the way Antoine’s face lights up. Fernando does genuinely like Antoine. He feels a pang at the thought of Steven, a stranger on a phone, and makes a quiet note to do better.

Saúl is watching Antoine out of the corner of his eye with a slightly disgruntled expression, and just a few days before Fernando might have dismissed it as just Saúl being Saúl. He’s beginning to think that maybe he hasn’t been as observant as he’s always liked to think.

He kicks the ball to Antoine, who flicks it up with his toe and heads it back. “Hey Antoine, is Saúl any good at FIFA?”

“Um, I don’t know? I don’t think I’ve ever played with him. How come?”

Fernando shrugs. “I just saw you guys together the other day, thought you might have hung out.”

“Nah, we’ve never really been together outside of training.” Antoine glances across the pitch to where Saúl is studiously not looking in his direction. Fernando wonders for a minute if he can hear them talking despite the distance, and then decides that it might be for the better if he can.

“You should ask him over sometime.” Just in case. Just to be sure. “He’s probably better competition than me.”

Antoine grins. “He could be awful and he’d _still_ be better competition than you.”

Fernando kicks the ball at his head. Antoine ducks, laughing.

And it’s nice. It’ll work.

Fernando reaches out to grab at Antoine’s arm, pulling him in for a hug. Their shoulders knock together and when Antoine grins, Fernando doesn’t see a pattern or a circle. Just the curve of Antoine’s mouth, something like a hope or a wish to be fulfilled. A hope for new beginnings. Fernando doesn’t see himself anymore. He sees Antoine.

 

 


End file.
